Arkham Nights

by Glynn Owen Barrass

  This left four minutes until the tenth and final round.

  I don’t know if Eddie decided to actually listen to me but he managed to box superbly during Round Nine and easily outpointed the fatigued Whately. Even with that, I was pretty sure that a knock-out was the only chance in hell he had of winning the fight and that just wasn’t going to happen unless our friend Justin Geoffrey somehow managed to nullify the Frenchman’s spell of invincibility over Whately.

  The crowd was raucous as the bell rang to start the tenth and final round.

  Eddie moved straight at Whately and landed a quick series of jabs before sliding away. At this point I wasn’t sure if the kid was going to box or go out in a blaze of glory. Things definitely looked grim concerning his sister’s fate and it was surprising that he was able to continue at all.

  Knowing there was even a faint chance that his sister might be returned safely was all Eddie McCoy needed to decide his course of action. The kid again moved toward Whately, holding his hands low as if inviting a knock-out. His larger opponent was still under the Frenchman’s protective spell so Eddie decided to offer himself up for the slaughter as demanded by Logan.

  He flicked a tentative jab towards his clumsy foe and this time stood his ground instead of moving away. Even an oaf like Whately could hit a stationary target and he answered the jab with a thundering right cross that staggered the kid. I muttered a curse and watched the kid reel across the ring as a result of the blow.

  A black rage rose up inside me and I gripped the heater in my pocket. If everything was in the toilet then the time had come for me to settle matters with Logan. Whately might come out of the fight on top but I could make damn sure that Logan, the crooked bastard, wouldn’t be around to reap the rewards. Glancing toward the ring, I saw Eddie get nailed with another big right that sent him to the canvas. I shook my head in disgust and started around the perimeter of the ring in order to confront Logan. Half way to my target I heard a high pitched voice screaming some gibberish loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd. Momentarily distracted from my goal, I turned toward the source of the strange disturbance and did a double-take.

  Justin Geoffrey was stumbling down the aisle, dressed in a flowing robe of canary yellow and holding aloft what resembled a sparking pinwheel. Behind him, a frustrated Trevor Towers was peering toward Eddie’s corner in an apparent attempt to locate yours truly. “Barnes!” he yelled, instantly spotting me as I frantically waved my arms.

  “Sonia’s safe!” he bellowed. “Tell the kid!”

  “And tell him to fight!” screamed Geoffrey. “My magic is stronger than the Frenchman’s!”

  “Jesus,” I moaned. The kid was in a world of hurt having just been felled by Whately’s punch. The only thing working in my favor was that the big brawler from Dunwich was too slow-witted to go immediately to the neutral corner as instructed in the pre-fight instructions given to both fighters concerning what must occur in the event of a knockdown. I hurried to the side of the ring closest to where the kid was sprawled and started screaming at him.

  He peered at me through glassy eyes as I tried to get through to him.

  “Sonia’s safe! Towers got her to safety!”

  He shook his head as if to clear away the cobwebs and said something I couldn’t hear over the pandemonium around me.

  “She’s safe!” I bellowed again. “Now get off your ass and show these morons why you’re going to be the future champ!”

  By this time Whately’s screaming trainer had finally convinced the big oaf to go to a neutral corner and the ref had begun the ten count.

  “One... two... three...”

  “Park it, fella!” yelled a pencil-necked geek in glasses. “I paid good dough to see this fight.”

  “Up yours,” I growled, turning back to the ring. “Come on, kid!” I pleaded. “You can put this clown away now.”

  He seemed to get my meaning and made it to one knee as the ref continued to count. “Four... five... six...”

  I was sweating bullets but the kid made it to his feet by the count of nine which seemed to have a marked effect on the stunned crowd. A few fans in the crowd began to chant the kid’s name and soon the entire arena echoed to the sound of Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!

  The battered fighter shot me a grin and turned to take care of business.

  With less than a minute remaining in the final round, he moved straight toward Noah Whately and easily avoided a roundhouse right thrown by the bigger man. Stepping inside he unleashed a flurry of body shots that caused his foe to visibly cringe. He followed this up with a series of wicked hooks that rocked Whately back on his heels.

  The kid was taking charge but was there enough time remaining for him to land the one big punch that could put his opponent away?

  Eddie had heart but that was an intangible that exercised no control over time. And time was something that was fast running out.

  I was cheering the kid on at the top of my lungs when I felt someone careen wildly into me. Turning to deck the fool, I stopped in amazement as my eyes rested on the figure before me. It was Justin Geoffrey, still waving that infernal pinwheel and mouthing gibberish at the top of his voice. Spittle flew from his lips and I made out something that sounded like, “Iä! Iä! Niggurath Vhata! Dagon Shan... Dagon Shan!”

  I shook my head in bewilderment and turned back to the ring in time to see Eddie staggered by a wild right that never would have landed had the kid not been exhausted. With precious seconds ticking away, Geoffrey pushed past me and jumped onto the ring apron.

  “Noah Whately! Dagon Shan! Dagon Shan!” he screamed.

  As crazy as it sounds, time seemed to stop for a handful of seconds and the atmosphere became electrically charged. There was a blinding flash and I watched Eddie McCoy get his bearings and load up for one final punch as time resumed its normal pace. The kid ducked under a straight left from Whately and seemed to reach down to the ring canvas for his return punch. And what a punch it was. I even managed to hear it land over Geoffrey’s maniacal screams behind me.

  What happened next is still being debated to this day. It’s become part of the strange lore that seems to keep the town of Arkham front and center in the minds of those who try to explain the unexplainable.

  Eddie’s punch landed about as hard as any punch could land. To say that the kid destroyed his opponent with the blow would be the literal truth yet still an understatement. Noah Whately’s head—once impervious to damage thanks to the Frenchman—seemed transformed into something akin to delicate crystal. Eddie McCoy’s Hail Mary punch to the jaw shattered the head of Noah Whately into a thousand shards of glass sending the now headless opponent down for a ten count from which he would never rise.

  Silence hung over the arena like a deathly pall but lasted only moments. I sort of think it was broken by Boss Logan’s scream of pain and terror as Trevor Towers grabbed hold of him. The punk’s banshee wailing—coupled with the scene of horror in the ring—seemed to have a contagious effect upon the assembled masses resulting in a mad stampede from the arena. I awkwardly pulled Geoffrey near me to keep him from being trampled in the melee and thanked him for helping the kid.

  Geoffrey was more pale than usual and appeared pretty shaky as a result of whatever unholy energies he had expended on our behalf. He managed to grin, bat his eyes at me and then swoon. “Christ,” I muttered, throwing him over my shoulder and heading into the ring to check on Eddie McCoy and seek a better vantage point from which to spot my partner.

  I sat Geoffrey on a stool and hugged a very confused but victorious Eddie McCoy. Turning to peer across the bedlam I spied Towers standing over three crumpled bodies near the seats once occupied by Logan and his thugs. I guess they’d been trampled to death in the panic. Trampled or something like that.

  Towers turned toward the ring and spotted me. He gave me the thumbs up sign and grinned.

  Sonia’s return led to a party, a double celebration including Eddie’s triumphant victory. With a few loose
ends to tie up, Barnes and me bowed out early.

  Nature hates a vacuum, as does Arkham, and it wasn’t long before another Mob Boss appeared to replace Logan’s corpse, now chilling at the bottom of the river. Pickman he calls himself, and with our reputation, combined with the disappearance of his predecessor, the fellow gives us a wide berth. He has no interest in boxing but rather, art is his thing.

  Since defeating the Iron Man, Eddie’s career has advanced in leaps and bounds, so much so he recently moved his family up onto French Hill. Logan’s safe, mysteriously appearing on Ma McCoy’s doorstep, helped. Now, they want for nothing. The former owner of the mansion, the French Sorcerer, disappeared soon after Eddie’s match with Whately. But that’s another story.

  Our friend Justin Geoffrey rents a wing of their home, but on one condition: that he remains vigilant around his experiments. Including our frequent visits, the family is protected both magically and by two big, well-armed thugs.

  Barnes and Towers.

  Skin Flick

  I was tooling around through the sticks of Dunwich, having completed a job-related errand, when I spotted something strange. Yeah, I know that strange and Dunwich go together like mustard and Coney Island. But anyway, it was uncommon as hell to see a brand-new roadster parked in the middle of a field with its door open. I slowed my own heap to a crawl and pulled over to the side of the narrow, winding road to take a closer gander at the sight.

  It appeared that the field had once been farmland but was currently growing nothing but some very healthy-looking weeds. I figured that a farmhouse must be nearby but couldn’t spot one. I also figured that it or what was left of it might be beyond the thick trees that bordered the pasture.

  “... a hell of a note,” I muttered, reaching into my pocket for my smokes.

  After lighting up, I maneuvered my way through a rusty barbed-wire fence and ambled toward the abandoned car. Something about that open car door didn’t sit right with me and my big nose was once again preparing to go prying into someone else’s business. It’s not that I’m generally a busybody but my line of work as a private investigator has sort of made such behavior a habit. My partner, a fellow named Trevor Towers, was back in Arkham probably flirting with our occasional receptionist Betty Polanski or else trying to avoid her voluminous mother who often filled in for her. With any luck there would be a logical explanation for the abandoned car and Trevor would just have to miss out on hearing another fascinating Riley Barnes adventure.

  I crossed the weedy field and approached the car. A strong wind blew, causing the tall grass to sway, making me feel like I was wading through green waves. I reached the car and walked to the side with the open door.

  “That don’t look good,” I whispered.

  A woman’s purse had its contents scattered on the seat. On the blood-stained seat. The blood was dry and rusty-looking and had probably been there for several days. The amount didn’t indicate a fatal wound but someone had definitely been hurt. I took a stick and flipped through the items on the seat but found no identification. The car’s tires had left a trail in the high grass and I followed it for a short distance to where it met up with a dirt road leading through the woods. Feeling adventurous and not wanting to deprive Trevor of a story, I began to follow the trail, first checking to see that the .38 securely tucked in my shoulder rig was loaded.

  I walked only about a hundred yards into the woods before coming to a clearing. Sure enough, a decrepit wooden building stood half-heartedly in the open space, awaiting permission to fall down. I faded back into the trees and considered my options. A smart man would return to his car and report the discovery to the local constable. Not being a smart man—and knowing that the constable was dumb as a box of hammers—I removed my pistol from the holster and held it firmly.

  Okay, Barnes, I thought. Now what?

  Now what consisted of me walking quietly to the fly-specked window at the side of the house and peering inside. I couldn’t see crap and everything was quiet as a graveyard. Taking a deep breath, I crept around to the front and stepped cautiously onto the warped wooden porch. The ancient lumber moaned in protest and I might as well have trumpeted a verse of Darktown Strutter’s Ball to announce my presence.

  Since no-one hollered from inside, I threw caution to the wind and aimed a kick at the door. It flew inward with a loud crash and I crouched beside it and waited for a response. I could’ve waited forever because nobody living was in the house. I entered the large room and waved my gun around as if that was going to do some good. It might’ve, if I’d had an inclination to kill flies; the room was thick with them. Their buzzing grated on my nerves but the sunlight and my presence seemed to prompt them on their way. I didn’t know what to make of it and even less at what I spied on the large bed in the center of the room.

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered, moving slowly toward the object.

  At first I thought someone had left their clothing laid out neatly on the bed. I edged closer and the sky decided to lighten and give me a better view. I could’ve done without it. A woman’s nude corpse lay atop the sheets. Well, that’s true only as far as it goes. It was only the skin of the woman that remained. The bile rose up in my throat but I managed to keep down the greasy burger I’d consumed earlier in the day. After taking a few deep breaths outside, I returned to the grisly sight and did a more thorough examination.

  I prodded at the remains with a stick—the things had really been coming in handy that day—and was amazed to find no tears in the skin. I was having a hard time believing my eyes but the damn thing appeared to be intact minus the important stuff like blood, bone and organs. I had scant medical knowledge but knew that what I was seeing should’ve been impossible. I mean, what consumes a person and leaves nothing but the skin? I thought of my partner and realized he was going to hear quite a story after all.

  Only after a few shocked minutes did I notice the huge light that was broken on the floor. It was one of those big jobs like they use on movie sets.

  What the hell? I wondered. Could someone have been filming something here? Filming whatever happened to the poor woman whose husk lay on the bed? Then things sort of clicked and I suddenly had a screwy idea about what happened.

  I guessed that the woman had been brought to this out of the way place to engage in the sort of film work you didn’t view at the local cinema. Something happened and she tried to scram. I figured that she must have made it to her car only to be subdued—accounting for the blood stains—and returned to the house. God only knows what happened after that but it was something that I had a hard time wrapping my mind around. There had been other tire marks, too, so it stood to reason that a number of people might’ve been involved in the woman’s death.

  I left the murder scene and stood grimly on the porch. The local constable would have to be informed but I damn sure wasn’t going to do it in person. Walking back to my car, I decided that an anonymous phone tip was the way to go. I wasn’t about to let some local yokel try to pin a murder rap on me

  I spied a gas station not too far outside Dunwich and placed an anonymous call to the State Police. They could come down and deal with that bum of a constable. I gave them just enough information to find the place though they sure weren’t happy with my lack of cooperation. After telling them what they could do with their unhappiness, I got back in the car and finished the return trip to Arkham.

  Our office reception area was empty and I wondered what excuse our new secretary was currently using for her absence. I went to mine and Trevor’s sanctum sanctorum and walked inside. Trevor was seated behind the desk and looked a bit green around the gills. My diagnosis was hangover since it would take a hell of a lot to shake a veteran like my partner. I spotted the metal film canister atop the desk and noticed a big 16mm projector set up in the corner of the office.

  I grinned and said, “Is naked dames what they’re currently prescribing for hangovers?”

  He looked at me and grimaced.

  “
Hey,” he said. “If you want to talk sick, wait until I lay this on you.”

  I was all revved up to tell him up about the horror I’d seen in Dunwich but he raised a big hand to silence me. My partner was seldom at a loss for words and usually had a storehouse of snappy insults to put me in my place so I was intrigued by his behavior, to say the least.

  “Riley,” he said, pointing to the film canister, “you gotta see this.”

  “Sure, Trev,” I answered. “My story can wait.”

  I took a seat and remained silent as he went to the projector and got things ready.

  I knew watching the film again would be hell on me. Even the thought of putting the gear together to watch the damned thing disgusted me. I borrowed the projector from the office downstairs, and was glad the owner would never know what kind of film had been used in it.

  While getting the film canister from the desk I filled Barnes in.

  “A guy came in here a little earlier, begging for our help.” As I said this I lifted the lid from the canister; it seemed to weigh a ton in my hands.

  “He told me to watch this,” I continued. “And I suppose it’s best you watch it too.”

  Barnes looked at me like I had something wrong with me. He wasn’t far wrong.

  I sat on the edge of the desk between him and the projector. He’d taken the client seat. After letting the film roll, I clenched my fists to try and put a little strength back into them. I had little luck.

  I’ve always thought myself a man of the world. Watching a monster brutally rape and kill a woman on screen proved I hadn’t really seen much of the world after all.

  The film was set in what looked like a large one-roomed cabin with a bed in its center.

  Barnes hissed as the film began, I assumed because of the naked woman sprawled on the bed. He quickly educated me to the fact he’d just been in that very room, and he knew what was coming next.

  Coincidences follow us like a bad cold.

  Still he gasped and swore as we watched the naked man approach and then savagely rape the poor woman; a man that although looked human in appearance, kept shifting his form in an unnatural way as he assaulted her like some rutting beast.